


Sketches

by aquandrian



Category: Jerry Lewis - Fandom, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-27
Updated: 2009-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:45:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5108360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/aquandrian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>— the story of us —</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sketches

iii — swell, carnal and keen

His hands, so long fingered, almost disproportionately long and slender … would they fit my naked breasts? Would my breasts fill his hands when he stands behind me, his breath on my nape, his voice in my ear, slicing down the side of my throat, his dangerous tongue tasting the skin under my ear? And that ring, heavy gold on the little finger of his right hand, would it abrade warm and strangely inorganic against my heavy not so golden flesh? Claim me, leave an invisible mark of sensation, a thrill right through to the heart of me.

The silky material of his tuxedo trousers will slip against my legs, against the full stiff skirt moving over layers of tulle petticoats, silk stockings strapped to my thighs and oh the wetness soaking through my cunt when he pushes his cock against me, into that small hollow just under my bottom.

He’ll realise when his hands ruck up the fabric and froth to find the secret of me bare to his fingers. The knowledge rasps in his breath, in the way his teeth seize on the rim of my ear. That I wanted this. That I planned this.

I want his head between my thighs, his wicked mouth eating at me, his clever restless fingers parting the intricacy of my flesh, his quick tongue licking out my swollen excited clit. My hands would smooth down over the tender curve of his shorn head, over the contour of his vulnerable nape. Wanting this, wanting him.

He’d unhook the back of my dress enough to pull the neckline down and scrape his fingertips across my nipples. Kiss me as he’s touching my breasts, baring them, all the curls of his lips devouring my breathless mouth. He’d taste of smoke and chewing gum, slightly unpleasant, but he’d kiss deep and sweet and selfish, kiss me only to distract me from what he’s doing with his hands. But I’d know and I let him think he’s got me where he wants me.

When I’m on top, he’d wind his lovely hands in the ropey waves of my hair tumbling down, and I’d lick the sleek contours of his cheekbones down to that sinful cleft in his chin, ignoring the laugh in his breath. I’d smooth my tongue along the lines of his strong throat, smell the scent of him in the warmth of his open collar, and tug the satiny undone bow tie from there. I’d feel his eyes on me as I sit up in a sinuous curve of spine, straddling his hips, to bind my hair back with that black ribbon.

His gold medallion would scrape against my nipples when he rolls over me, leans over me, the soft hair on his chest against my tender skin. I’d hook my fingertips into the sliver of space between the gold identity bracelet and the strong bones of his left wrist. Lift my head so he whispers his curling soft lips across my mouth, the breath of him slipping into me.

He’d be a selfish lover and I’d fight him, force him to pleasure me. He’d try to hold me down but I’d twist away and lunge forward to rake my nails up his torso, bite at his displeased mouth with mine. Push him down on the pillows and tell him “no, I’m not like the girls he usually fucks, I’m like no other girl he’s ever met and I don’t care if he thinks I’m unwomanly.”

I hold him down with my hands and lick through the soft dense curls to his nipples, taste and torture them until they’re raw and reddish and he hates me a little. And his cock would be sliding across my breasts, wet and hot and hard and smooth, wanting in and in and in.

“The things I could do to you,” I tell him, I threaten him, and they slide through my mind. Tying him up and sucking his cock but stopping before he comes. Tying him down and forcing him to eat me out, my hand on the back of his head, swiping across his nose and mouth and chin until his face glistens with the sweet hot slime of my cunt. And his eyes would be feverish and hateful, dark green brown and murky, blood high under the skin of his cheekbones.

But I’d let him. I’d tease and tease, work him to such a maddened pitch and then turn him loose.

So he turns on me, forceful and enraged, attacks me with his whipcord restless body. His long slender limbs sliding behind me, his chest against my back, the sleek muscles of his forearms tensing as he pulls me around and under him, his bracelet against my breast bone. Shove my legs apart with his knees, and grab my breasts as he fucks his cock into my cunt, and oh god I feel it in my throat, that deep hard smooth shape spreading me wider, pushing on my insides and sliding up solidly to my womb. When I push back onto him, he sinks in deeper. I take him in deeper and I wish I had licked down between his thighs, smelt the intimate roughness of hair and balls, licked down there and left a bite on the inside of taut muscle.

He buries his face in the messy curls at my nape as he works his sharp hips against mine, and the sounds he makes are rough half breaths, catching a little, rasping a little as he fucks in deeper and harder and faster. My skin is going hot all over in tiny licks of flame and I make him squeeze my breasts, fondle me with his ridiculously beautiful hands.

His breaths become grunts, harsh animalistic shards of sound, and where’s his dazzling wit now? He’s all inarticulate mindless need and it’s me he needs, the wet warm wild orgasm he’s chasing up inside my cunt.

I’m not going to come so I go quiet and wait for him to finish, to take the knowledge of him coming. When he’s done, I’ll want to kiss him and be tender but I won’t, I mustn’t. He’s too dangerous, too amoral for that, and I’ve already degraded myself enough by letting him into my body, by letting him have me.

So when he shudders and sighs and it’s all wet and hot inside me, down the inside of my thighs, I disengage and slip away as he slumps forward into the bed. The room is large and a little empty, all reds and creams and golds. Pretty and needlessly expensive, like him. 

I don’t look at him as I rise and go into the bathroom, closing the door with a clear click. There, I unclip the garter belt, put my panties back on, and reclip the garter belt. Only then do I look at myself in the mirror.

I had him. I had him. The secret gleeful dirty knowledge is clutched to my invisible heart, shining mad in my reflected eyes. He’s dangerous and amoral and completely untrustworthy, a mind that would do me more harm than good. But I had him for that little while.

 

ii — send me halava

Take me to Paris. We won’t fight and we won’t fuck. Woo me with a city of fairy lights, misty trees and rich hot chocolat. But it won’t be romance, no syrupy sentiment, no hearts and flowers. We’re not like that and our energy doesn’t vibrate on so trite a frequency. Take me where I can seek out talented wordy people of daring, and the sparks will fly between us, that bright light of intellectual discovery and mental stimulation.

You’ll play L’Olympia and I’ll sit in the audience, thrilled all over again by the anarchic intelligence of you, one more spontaneous laugh in the appreciative crowd. I’ll take you with me when I go to find Pauline Réage or Anne Desclos or whatever her name is, and we may meet people who would scandalise even you and your debauched pack of hounds. You in your casual open collared suit and me in my pencil trousers and trim blouse, we’re such a fashionable sight in this fashionable city.

In dark golden little cafés with jazz on the thick smoky air, we’ll have absinthe with sugar cubes and talk with other writers and actors and painters about truth, freedom and the ethics of bestiality. Your right hand will rest beside mine on the table, the little finger curled under that sinfully manly signet ring. When you snap out a particularly fast particularly sharp retort, I’ll laugh deep in my throat and, as your dense green eyes glint sideways at me, warm golden metal will slide against the side of my little finger. 

On the walk back to the hotel, I tell you “nobody would ever guess you’re a high school dropout” and you pretend to take offence but you’re loving it. It’s only then that I notice that not once do you ever use your performing voice on me, it’s always the natural sophisticated slightly seductive tone that you use offstage.

Maybe we won’t fight when we get back to New York. Maybe I’ll swan off to find William Burroughs, just to tell him not to play with guns around his wife. You could find some new groupie to gaze with adoration at you, to titter when you mock her inferior mind, and be a little afraid of you.

I could crawl into your bed the night before we fly back and you would be completely unsurprised, even smug like you expected it all the while. Then I would have to sit across your chest, ignore your cool hands on my thighs, and tell you there is no way I will ever fuck you, even if you fly me halfway around the world and drape me in jewellery and furs.

You’d laugh at me. Openly mocking. And I won’t speak to you for two months.

In a dusty little Mexican bar jangling with guitars, you’ll walk up to our crowded paper strewn table. The boys eye you with half derision half lust over their whisky glasses. You ignore them, tell me the car will leave in an hour with me in it, whether I like it or not. Burroughs whistles as the others make filthy comments. I get up and walk away from you.

There’s sweat in the curls at the base of your throat, framed by the wilting white collar of your linen suit. You hate me for making you come after me and I hate you for not giving in to me. Me on the edge of a table in this back room, you rake a contemptuous look down my thin black singlet, biker jeans and boots. Your nostrils flare at the smell of me, hot and rich. Not womanly at all? I smirk at you.

This is when you kiss me for the first time. Without warning, with tequila spilt across the sawdust floor, you step in between my thighs, grab my chin and my head goes back, shocked, under the force of your mouth. Teeth and tongue and the taste of you, fierce and male, sears through me. Without warning, my cunt clenches with an almighty wetness and it’s a godawful shock.

My fists slam into your chest and I’m storming out of the bar, towards the dark car.

Two weeks later, at breakfast on Coney Island, I ask you to pass the pepper and your expression is so startled I laugh. “Coax me,” I say with a tiny grin. The sun hits your eyes and the green goes so light, wild and elated, that I catch my breath.

 

i — mah shoes

He loathes me.

No, that’s not right. He doesn’t know what to make of me. And I, I cannot believe how vile a creature he is. No deeply sensitive artist, this. No noble humanitarian. He swears and smokes and doesn’t drink alcohol but he whores. Oh god, does he ever.

“I thought he was married,” I say to one of the women. “I heard a rumour about a wife and son back in Newark.” He certainly fucks around like a man glorying in his infidelity.

She looks at me a little oddly. “No … I think there was a girl a while back. A dancer …”

“Yes, that’s right.” I seize on this. “A dancer. What happened, do you know?”

She doesn’t. So I make my own discreet enquiries, enough to discover that girl is now in Berlin, dancing with some avant-garde troupe. She chose her career over him, after all. Thank christ.

Here in New York, the women flock around him, drawn to the high octane flame of his bravado, his wildness. And he loves it, doesn’t he? It shows in every glitter of his strangely coloured eyes, in the curl of his wide sweet mouth, the twitch of his fine restless hands. Even with the men, he moves and talks a mile a minute, needing no other drug but his mind, and it’s irresistible. I can hardly blame them and I don’t. It’s him, it’s all him.

I loathe him. I can’t help it, I don’t want to, but every fibre of my being revolts at the way he behaves. He offends every female sensibility in my soul and maybe it’s envy, maybe it’s fierce awful disappointment. But I won’t have him like this.

For what it’s worth, the women like me. When I join, quiet and interested, they watch me for a while. And the moment it dawns on each one that I don’t care a whit for any of their men, they relax and let me into their confidence. I am no threat to their fragile male-boosted egos. We talk about female things and they teach me how to be a woman in their time.

Because oh I do love the clothes. I love the gorgeousness of being a woman in this day and age, the elegance of the wasp waisted dresses with the skirts that flare out over layers of froth. Delighting in the slim lovely suits hugging every contour, all luscious and soft, and the smart pointed shoes. In the clever hats over the side parting that highlights my cheekbone and the waved hair that frames my jaw. The women envy my curls and want me to cut my hair short but I refuse firmly and politely, needing it to tumble down my back. I fall in love now with rich materials, bare shoulders and elaborate skirts for the evening gowns, with the jewellery that shines like clusters of stars at temple and throat and wrist and hip.

They teach me how to look the part. And for the first time, I feel so blissfully feminine, glorying in the shape of me, the beauty of me. Perhaps it’s a power I could wield but I don’t. There’s no desire to. I focus instead on the complexities and tendernesses of the women, and smile pleasantly at their husbands and boyfriends and flings of the moment.

The men eye me warily for a bit, maybe some with a prurient interest, but soon enough they forget I exist. Just one more female face in the crowd of hangers-on, because the male energy of camaraderie is all, is the force that binds them together. So I watch and I watch him.

How he notices a woman and flicks her a smile that’s more of a smirk, just to test her interest. And every time, she’ll fall over herself in an eagerness to get to his side. She makes it so easy for him, and he’s no better with the way he basks in the adulation, takes it as his male right. Because he’s famous and he’s successful and he’s funny and he’s charming. Because there’s money in his tuxedo pocket, a quip on his clever tongue, and a hotel suite just ready for the luxury.

He talks to her, never with her. He delivers no flattery and tells no lies, honest to the point of callous, callous to the point of abuse. And she adores him for it. So she lets him kiss her and lets him fondle her discreetly in public. He takes her up to his hotel suite and sometimes they don’t emerge for days. Sometimes she’s escorted out the door in a few hours. And the next night, he slants a smile at another woman.

It makes my blood boil. The rage bubbles up inside me over a matter of weeks, of months. So I go from silent listening to amused asides to snide remarks and then, as he cuts his suspicious eyes towards me, to open hostility. Until one night he retorts and we find ourselves snarling at each other in a circle of shocked silence.

By the end of the week, he knows exactly what I think of him and his morals. And I discover his eyes are the darkest shade of hazel green, curiously lightless and hard, so very hard, like all the sweetness and tenderness of him is shielded behind some moss covered stone door of intellect. I look into his eyes and what I don’t see makes me all the angrier.

To my horror and delight, he fights back. What right do I have to judge him?

I have every right. I’m a woman and a human being, and the way he uses and discards women is an affront to any woman and human being. How would he like it if some woman treated him like that?

He smirks at me. Yes, there’s a name for women like that. “And that’s exactly what you are,” I tell him. “A slut.”

He colours at that, with such intensity I can’t tell if it’s fury or humiliation. But he doesn’t deny it and that, I think, is very telling. That throws me a little. Is he aware of the shame, does he feel it?

His retort comes out of nowhere. “What does that make you? Some vessel of feminine righteousness? Goddess ice queen, some woman you are,” he sneers. And it slices me something awful, that vile vicious edged tongue of his.

When we’re not flaming up at each other, he ignores me and I pretend not to notice every single movement of him. But he sees me every time I’m in the audience, knows when I laugh at his performances. Maybe it bewilders him that I react with such ease and joy to the art of him but he doesn’t say anything. 

Still I know he listens when I talk to the others about books and films. I don’t blare my opinions, it’s not the time or place, but I speak my mind and temper it with humour. In discussions of Dumas and Lubitsch, of Cukor and Verne, I’m a more elegant version of myself. The perfect woman, damn him.

Then one night at one more ballroom with the big band music clashing vibrant against the vivid walls, I’m pulled onto the dance floor. The women have been teaching me and now, with the alcohol and smoke and perfume dizzying the air, I’m having far too much fun to think. Flashing ankles and sparkling heels and skirts swirling dangerously high, we all dance for hours, passing partners to partners. And it’s nothing and everything of a moment to be suddenly faced with the glitter of his eyes and the cut of his mouth, to have his hand close sure and hard around my wrist. It’s the jitterbug and there’s no denying that delirious burst of rhythm and noise.

I love that he holds me firm, with the physical confidence of a man who knows how to dance. No acrobatics, just ridiculously fast footwork and god it’s intoxicating to be able to keep up with him, the blood pounding through us, exuberant and incandescent with the music.

When it’s done, in the roar of applause, we steady ourselves against each other, his hands on my waist, mine on his chest. His cologne is warm with fresh lovely male sweat, surrounds me as my skirt swings against his legs, petticoats crushed between us. My hair is probably coming down from its pins and jewelled clips, damp against my neck, but I don’t care. Because his eyes are bright with delight as he calls over the music. “You’re good!”

I laugh. “Je ne sais quoi, darling! I’m a lot of things you don’t know about!”

And he laughs back at me, uproariously, remade and rediscovered all over again.

 

iv — you’re nasty, all of you

When I come out of the bathroom, you’re sitting up against the pillows, a glimpse of gold in curls and the white sheets rumpled around your bare hips. Watch me. I don’t care. I won’t wait to be put out like last night’s dirty dishes. All I have to do now is get my clothes back on, step into my shoes and walk out the door with your tuxedo tie still tangled up in my hair. A trophy. 

This is the plan almost complete, to have you and leave you. Used and discarded. To leave you before you could leave me.

With my back set to the bed, I focus on doing up the hooks of my corset, how the stiff smooth material fits over my breasts and conceals the nudity of me, molds my shape into the right female contours. It feels like armour now and that seems right. That’s Miss Goddess to you, I think with an inward chuckle.

“Is that it?” A snarl in your voice. “Is that all I get? One fuck and you’re out the door.”

Ho ho, that’s rich! If I say that, you’ll explode at me. 

As it is, it takes only one amused look flicked over my shoulder for you to go slightly red with fury and humiliation. Yes, you know you sound like every other woman you’ve ever fucked.

“I’m sorry,” I say with a vile little grin, turning to you. “Didn’t you get what you want?”

“I want you to come back to bed.” Flat hard eyes but I stare, surprised. “Now.”

Megalomaniac. I know that well. And I never could resist a challenge. 

“Why?” I lift my chin, amused. I’d bet you’ve never asked this before. The fingers of your left hand curl in near your abdomen, the bracelet glinting in the lamplight, and that familiar restless gesture seems strangely self-protective to me. Of course you’re not going to answer.

“This is what I’m meant to do,” I tell you with some indulgence. “Aren’t I supposed to leave now?”

Your throat works. “Not particularly, no …”

My skin seems to contract all over, shocked silent and deep.

“Not yet,” you say with a glint of stone in those eyes. And my mind is made up.

“All right.” This I have to see to the end.

You don’t touch me as I get into bed. In fact, you move away to give me room, something careful now in your shuttered expression. So many inches of empty space between us. And oddly enough that reminds me of the space you occupied inside me. I can still feel you there, like all the songs and books say, like you’ve left that space inside me.

Sitting up against the pillows, I watch you thinking for a few moments, the strangely beautiful line of your nose, the defiant deep cleft of your chin that seems to contour your whole face towards your mouth, that vulnerable curling shape. A memory slides into my head, someone saying that you’re an extremely emotional person. And I remember how you yourself have said that you never could mask your feelings, that everything you feel is on your face, out there for the world to see.

But I can’t read you. Not always, not the way I should if this thing between us is real. Sometimes you’re an alien creature, full of edges and poisons, full of things I can’t predict and couldn’t expect. And yet there is something that connects us, if only the violence of our egos, the force of our intellects. I look at you and sometimes you seem painfully familiar with all your prickly ways and outrageous behaviours. Like the stones of your eyes … did you have to learn that? How you look at the world with the wary distrust of an abandoned child. Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to you. God, what a cliché.

You turn to me without warning, a fluid involuntary movement. I flinch, startled.

Me against the pillows, trapped by the bracket of your arms and the length of your body along mine. I should be more afraid, shouldn’t I? But you don’t allow your flesh to brush mine. You meet my eyes, look at my face, look at my mouth, so close that I can see the grain of your skin, the many dense shades of your eyes, smell the slight nicotine on your breath and the ripe scent of your sex spent body.

What do you see, what are you looking at? What could you possibly see? This body of mine is trussed up in silk stockings and garter belt, thrust forward like an object of lust. But you’re not looking at that, are you? And that realisation makes a shiver of unease go down my spine.

Whatever it is, it must be all right. Because you draw back with a small pleased smile, to sit on your heels. I cast an automatic glance down your lean muscled body with its patches of rough male hair and look quickly up when you speak.

You tell me to take off the stockings. It makes me blink a little but I comply out of sheer curiosity. You could do it yourself but apparently that’s not the point. Between my spread legs, you stay still and watch as I unclip the garter belt and roll down the silk. Then you tell me to take off the panties. I hate that word. Impossibly, a slight shyness warms my face as I slip them off. And finally the corset. I let it fall off the side of the bed back down to the floor, meeting your gaze steadily.

One garment at a time, I’ve revealed myself to you. It’s only flesh. But this, this begins to unnerve me. Because you’re not bored yet, you’re not looking away. And that unease has twisted deep in my belly now, try as I do to intellectualise this, to make this only about sex.

You draw the sheets away from me and we both watch as you move your right hand with a steady deliberation above the contour of my calf. Up, slow, so close I can feel it, the silken heated air moving between your hand and my skin like a living touch. Arousal slams through me, a sudden tide of colour to my face and I snap my face away.

You move like a whip, your mouth suddenly at my ear. “Don’t!”

Fuck you, you don’t tell me what to do!

“Don’t,” you say softer and that unease turns to nausea in my stomach. I know now what you’re doing but I don’t understand why. Why would you possibly want to do this? With me.

Your cheekbone slides against mine, so warm and so real and feeling like it will rasp soon enough. But not yet. “Don’t,” you say with the hint of a plea, “let’s not … let’s just …”

Have this.

I take in a shaky breath, looking at the heavily draped window across the dimmed room. It’s not unease any more and it’s not in the base of my belly any more. It’s fear and it’s stampeding through my chest. Afraid of the silence, afraid of your breathing, afraid of you so close and staying so close, afraid of what I’m doing, still here, still risking all the ways you could hurt my heart and hurt my mind.

You don’t know how continually amazed I’ve been at my own daring. It could have gone wrong at so many points. I could have misjudged your response at every turn. You could have been so much colder, so much scarier, so much nastier. So much more violent.

I can’t trust you, I know this. 

But then it occurs to me. What cause have I given you to trust me? 

When I turn my face to you, you examine my features with that same unwavering curious intensity. You know nothing about my history, where I come from, the events and people that have shaped me. I haven’t told and you haven’t asked. We’ve talked books and music and film and life and philosophy but it’s always been in the theoretical, not the specific. Even if you asked, I may not have told. And I wonder suddenly, are my eyes stones too? 

Not now, not when I’m struggling to hide this from you.

Do you sense it? You wouldn’t hit me, you wouldn’t rape me. You’re not capable of it, too much your grandmother’s grandson.

This fear is all me. And I can’t let you see it, I mustn’t.

“What are you doing?” My voice is thready, too vulnerable. “What are you going to do?”

Something changes in your face, a sort of serious thought. I watch your lids lower, my curiosity almost overwhelming the strangeness. If I could just get into you, open up the mysteries of your mind and have your heart speak to me …

What could I possibly do with that knowledge, that trust?

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

I almost laugh but the way your eyes glint stops the sound in my throat. “Aren’t you?” I manage softly. And now you look shocked, outraged in fact.

“I would never — !”

“I know,” I say hastily, “I know that.”

“So let me …” Your eyes go slumbrous, heavy lidded on the curves of my mouth. Your fingertips come to hover near the swell of my lower lip, still not touching. Your voice is barely a breath in your throat. “Let me do this …”

I close my eyes, unable to watch any more. It’s not submission, it’s biding my time.

Your lips touch the skin at the corner of my eye. So delicate, the hint of hot and wet but oh just the smooth curling shapes of your lips. And even with my eyes closed, I can sense your hand moving along the outer curve of my arm, slowly down. All the tiny hairs of my skin ripple in response. This time I breathe in and accept.

This is what you’re doing, the megalomaniac at play. And my own monstrous ego insists I can handle this too. I can handle you. I can take this pleasure from you, see how far you can go before you get bored. Because you will, selfish as you are.

You kiss me, small precise kisses along my cheekbone, the corner of my lips. Strange and mesmerising. Your hand skims down my throat and, without me thinking about it, my head falls back against the pillows, a moan caught under my collarbone. Your tongue flicks out, into the dip of my chin, and your mouth follows the jut of bone down to the contour of my neck. A languor comes over me, gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh.

You lick, careful delicate caresses, not affectionate, not chaste, oh not at all. And I come down out of my head, find myself living entirely in my body, in my skin shimmering over and over with sensation, as every inch of me is pressed, remade and rediscovered with the soft wet taste of your tongue.

Braced on my arms, trembling slightly, I watch as you move lower, the curve of your dark head against the curves of my naked chest. Long slow stripes of your tongue over my breasts and oh god I want your mouth on the tips, want to pull your head there, force you where I want you. But there’s an art to what you’re doing and my blood moves too slow, too drugged with pleasure. The edge of your medallion swings against the inward flutter of my abdomen as you lick around my nipples, a deep curl of appreciation to the shape of your lips. I see your lashes flicker open, feel the tips skim my skin, and my cunt clenches with liquid heat. The sight of you, christ.

The first time I come is when you slide your hand up, a whisper away, along the contour of my arm and your mouth follows, sucking a little, along the inner curve. The orgasm rushes through me, hot and sweet and so very wet between my tightening thighs. I lose all sense of place for a few amazing seconds and by the time you get to the dip of my elbow, I can hear myself sighing that particular note of pleasure. You couldn’t possibly know but you’ve just found my most erogenous of zones.

You could focus on the obvious areas but, to my dim surprise, you don’t. Amazed and fascinated and still a bit scared, I close my eyes and feel as you go all over, ankle to hipbone to nape. Trace me with your fingertips and learn me with your tongue, know me with the gleam of your eyes. I melt and reform under your mouth, the breath of you slipping into the grain of me. When your teeth seize on the delicate skin of my inner wrist, I come again and then the orgasms blend into each other, some small flutters and some deeper richer fluid series of moments lost to time. You’re all around me and when finally you draw back, I miss you with a fierce awful pang.

But you look at me, slow and thorough, and I blush a little when I realise I’m half slumped against the pillows, legs sprawled and my skin maybe shining slightly from your silver tongued mouth. And you, you look delicious to me, broad shoulders and glimmer of gold and slender limbs, the hint of heat to your colour, and the heft of your thick hard cock with slickness at the tip. All my nerves singing with satiation, I contemplate you through my lashes and, for a second, imagine a gold stud just there.

“Do something for me,” you say on a wonderfully ragged note. I stretch and settle, just that one movement all I need to regain my confidence.

“Mmm?”

Your eyes brighten. “Spread yourself for me.”

For one second, I don’t understand. Then I do and again, impossibly I feel myself blush. My skin goes hot all over, mortified and aroused in the same devastating moment. But I will.

If I can remember how to move …

It’s not easy with you watching, even for me of all people. But if I focus on how this is exciting you, the particular reddening of your cheekbones and the pearling bead at the head of your cock, I can do this. Sit up against the pillows and slide my hand from collarbone over breast, slowing over my abdomen as your eyes glint. I lay my index and second fingers where the tiny curls of hair begin. A moment of taut silence and you reach, mesmerised, for me. Just your long fingered hand moves above and along the contour of my thigh and we both watch as my thigh angles open, following your hand. Then, as if my whole body follows you, my spine arches and I slide my fingers down through curls into that so wet smooth slit.

My cunt, my favourite place. And cliché though it may be, I never feel more female than at this moment, completely present in the sensual reality of me. All woman, thank you!

You watch as I press outward, as the lips of my sex part to reveal all the strange intricate flowered shapes and folds, my two fingers framing the reddened peak of my clit, sweet hot fluid leaking from that hidden place you’ve already been.

“Jesus,” you breathe and go down in one beautiful curve of bone and sleek skin.

I tip my face up and smile at the ceiling for a moment of pure female glory. But I have to see you do this and when I look down, dear god, the sight is something I’ve imagined so many times but never knew it would be exactly like this. Your perfectly shaped head with the tiny wisps of dark shiny hair and the lovely indent of your nape, your shoulders broad and muscled between my wide flung thighs, all sleek contours down your naked back, and your hands closing in the sheets, the signet ring and bracelet catching the lamplight on either side of me and throwing it back gold.

I hold myself open and dear god the sensation of your tongue is like nothing else. So fabulously intimate, slick and bold, you swipe over the folds and dips of my cunt, and I have to drag my free hand over my face, whimpering slightly into my palm as the muscles in my legs threaten to buckle. It gets more and more difficult to keep my fingers where they are as you explore. When you push your tongue into me, luscious and firm, I want to let go and have you hold my thighs down but that isn’t the point. So I moan deep in my throat and slide my heels against the sheets, writhing a little against your face. That you like, don’t you? That makes you go at it with all the more intensity, the sound of your breath muffled, your hands clenching around bunches of white fabric.

When you lick my clit, I cry out. And I can’t hold myself open any more, arching against the pillows, eyes slammed shut against the red darkness and feeling my skin flame all over as you’re sucking and sucking, feeding on me with your shoulders shoving my thighs apart. Blind, I reach down and my hand slides over the velvet texture of your head, fastens at your nape as my hips surge forward and you moan against my molten sex, into me. The vibration throbs through me, you slide your mouth down to pull the fluid from my clenching cunt, and I want to giggle and sigh at the press of your nose against my clit.

But you return and suddenly the rasp of your tongue is too much. “Lighter,” I gasp and it’s a wonder you actually obey. Lighter and lighter until you’re barely touching my clit, just the slightest wet flick over and over again, alternated with a cool breath, and without warning I’m coming in my second most favourite kind of orgasm, the one where my spine melts and heat blazes slow and powerful out from the core along all my muscles and nerves, right out to the very ends of me. This time, I lose all sense of place and time. When I do recover my composure, my body is limp with exhaustion and my cunt feels swollen, ripe and deliciously juicy, soaked through with pleasure.

You’re immensely pleased with yourself. This is the first thing I notice when I push my hair out of my face and see you sitting beside my legs. You’re smirking at me, a tad strained but ridiculously smug. “What, don’t tell me — ” I start but then I’ve noticed that your mouth and cheekbones are glistening with the clearness of my come. I’m quite sure I blush for the third time in one night.

Before I can move for that deserved kiss, you grin. Flick your tongue over your lips. And unfold your body along the bed in a heart stopping moment of long limbed grace. As your hand glides up my ribcage with that breath of silken air, my breath catches and my back arches, unable to resist. Your lips slide, hot and open, on the outer curve of my breast and I turn on a cry so my nipple finds the wet hollow of your mouth. 

A growl rips from your throat, you surge forward in a push of firm thighs against mine and I remember suddenly that your cock is still hard. I want to touch, I reach down but you grab my wrist and I cry out again, this time at the bone melting strength of your grip. You kiss the cry back into my mouth, savage and luscious, tasting entirely of my cunt. It makes me wild, twisting against you, and you draw back for an alarmed second to check my reaction but I lunge forward for your mouth and you bear me down amid the pillows, tongue and teeth and all the tensile force of your shoulders and arms. I’m immolated in this full body contact, you and me and this power flickering back and forth like lightning between us. If I touch your cock now, you’ll come. All over my thighs and abdomen.

Then there’s nothing for it. You flip me onto my stomach and I’m thrilling all over, wanting this so much. But then something occurs to me and I slip out of your grasp, amused at how you automatically scowl and reach for me. “No, like this,” I say, lying back against the pillows and holding out my arms to you.

Your brows arch, intelligence flashing in your eyes. But you come to lie against me, the medallion rubbing its many bevelled edges against my breasts, your cock slipping into the hollow between my thighs. “Like this?” Your mouth curves wide and sweet. “You want me like this, Lilith that you are?”

I laugh, delighted, up at you. Someone remembers his Talmud very well indeed.

For a moment, you rest your forehead against mine, eyes closed. The strain of your arousal shows in all the lines and taut contours of your face. Then you swiftly roll us over and open your eyes, curve your hands over my hipbones, to watch me sit up on your midriff. I lift my hand to pull the tuxedo tie free, draping it around my neck, and we share a grin as I lean forward and my hair tumbles around us, long ropes of curls. “There you are,” you drawl out, hands coming up to cup my breasts, and I laugh.

Lilith I can definitely be.

Ride you like a succubus, braced on my hands in the pillows, and watch your face in the glimpses of lamplight through my hair. How you watch as I lower myself onto you, that long exquisite slide of your cock into my cunt, taking you in deep. Your lips part on a soundless snarl, blood rushing under your skin, and your eyes go feverish, rake up my nude body to fix on my mouth as your long fingers clench on my hips and you push up. “Move,” you grit out and I smile as I straighten up and lift my hair off the back of my neck. And you groan with the undulating seize of my insides.

“You don’t tell me what to do,” I murmur and I know you barely hear me, your throat arching as I put my hands on your chest and fuck down, fuck back and forth, finding that perfect ceaseless rhythm. Your signet ring rubs against the top of my thigh and, on the other side, the broad links of the bracelet abrade my skin. These manly symbols of you in your time and yet some things don’t change at all, do they?

Your lovely hands slide up my back, shaping the muscles there, and I gasp as you draw your knees up behind me and your shoulders come off the pillows, your cock moving so deep inside me I can feel you at the opening of my womb. I slide my arms around your shoulders and our mouths meet feather light, that curling slide of lips and breath, as my legs coil around your hips and you lift me, settle me secure upon your cock. Warm breath between us, warm skin slipping against warm skin, and I can’t look into your eyes, I have to bury my face into your shoulder as we move together, so intimate and so powerful.

If you could just get inside me, know the ways my mind works and understand all that’s in my heart … 

Would it be so bad?

Here and now, you behind me is how it works best. Upright in the snarled sheets, knees spread, your right hand claiming my left breast, gold against my heart, so dangerously possessive, the fingers of your other hand spread around my clit. And I arch in a long liquid moan as your cock sinks all the way up into me. Push and yield, invade and engulf, that inexpressibly right sensation. I turn my face to yours, curve my arm around the back of your head as you kiss my mouth, kiss me deep as I move upon your cock, slow and deep and relentless. I would keep this steady rhythm but you grip my hips, change angle and I gasp with the rake of your cockhead across a certain spot inside me. Suddenly I’m not in control and that’s all right, suddenly it’s you pushing me up against the wall, your index finger seeking out my clit. You get all focused and determined and it’s wonderfully hot. You want me gasping and bracing my arms on the wall, leaning away from you, and your cock is fucking up hard and sure inside me, sending shocks of sensation all the way under my skin. This time a colour burst of stars blasts a symphony through me, endlessly, endlessly, reducing my intellect to pure mindless nerves thrumming with moans. I think I actually black out for a few seconds.

That was my favourite type.

When I come to, after what seems like an age, I’m a boneless creature flopped on the bed and you’re sprawled beside me, the sex scent of us rich in the closed air of this hotel suite. I breathe in and get a sudden image of the women and men gathered in the ballroom below us, chatting and drinking and laughing. It doesn’t seem so long ago that we left them. Hours, at least.

What are they saying about us, about me? Would they be wholly unsurprised? Oh yes, we knew it all along. You’d give in to him, every woman always does. It was just your way that you led him a merry dance first. 

The succubus and the slut.

It makes me feel vile and degraded all over again.

And yet.

I turn my head on the pillow to look at you. You’ve got an arm flung over your eyes, your breathing slightly ragged, and the bracelet is a dull shackle against the corded contour of your forearm. In this silence, you uncover your eyes and glance at me. And immediately I look away, not ready and not willing to have any conversation right now. Let’s not start the whole trite argument again. 

Now the plan seems too far away and weirdly irrelevant. All the thoughts I’ve had since then, the things I’ve felt, the ways you’ve changed me since then. None of it should mean anything.

But I feel you all over me, like your fingerprints are pressed into all the textures of my skin. And I know the taste of me is on your tongue, the flesh and fluid of me taken into you. The space you’ve left inside me is sore and satisfied, enough that you must be sore and aching well too.

Now I don’t know what I want and that scares me so much I can’t even move.

“Hey …”

I tense as you turn towards me, an inch of space between us. 

“Nothing to say?” you ask and your voice vibrates within my chest, soft and low. You lean over me and, even now after all we’ve just done, I find myself responding like I’m rising to you, all of me drawn to the sight and sound of all that is you. You see it, the awareness flares in your eyes.

“What would you like me to say?” I manage with a huskiness that is more uncertainty than seduction. It’s a feeble attempt at a retort and you grin at me, a cheeky acknowledgement. 

I’m vulnerable once more and you’re not turning away.

This. Is this possible? Could we have this? 

Do I want it?

The sense of something tender, something sweet trembles between us, and maybe you feel it too, a subtle colour rising on your cheekbones. You look at my mouth with a sort of longing and my heart seems to stutter in my chest as you lower your face, those short spiky lashes coming down. Your lips are delicate, painfully so, and suddenly I want to clutch at you, make this violent, make this something that won’t hurt so much.

But no. What gives me the right to fight all the time?

Maybe you’re not the only one here to learn and change. To be redeemed.

Between us, I choke out a laugh and you draw back with a quizzical frown. Which only makes tears of mirth spring to my eyes as I lift my head, pull the undone tie from around my neck and toss it aside. “I just realised something. I’m not Lilith. I’m fucking Mary Sue!”

You wrinkle your nose up at me, adorable but of course you don’t understand and that makes me erupt into laughter, knowing I sound almost hysterical. This was the plan along? To have you and make you into a good man full of tenderness and concern? To redeem you? Oh god, the cliché of me!

When I subside, you slip your long fingers around my chin and make me look at you. “One day,” you say evenly, “you’re going to explain that to me.”

“Am I?” That was meant to sound amused but it comes out breathless. Because that glint in your eyes isn’t stone any more, it’s that sharp curious intelligence focused entirely on me, deep green and brown, and sweet jesus, how can I resist that?

“Great,” I hear myself say, “now I’m like every other woman you’ve ever had.”

Your mouth quirks, amusement changing the contours of your face. “And I’ve had so very many many women …”

“Yes, you’ve probably given me syphilis or something now,” I snap back, hurt despite myself.

You blink then laugh. “You say the most romantic things …”

“Oh shut up,” I mumble. Banter was not supposed to be part of this. I’m not sure I can hold out against banter with you.

You lean in and touch your lips to my cheek once more. “First thing you ever said to me was that I’m an ass.”

“You are an ass,” I say crossly and the humour leaps in your eyes. “And I know what I said, don’t repeat it back to me.”

“Sorry,” you murmur, completely unrepentant.

“I was just being honest. Someone had to be.”

Your mouth curves, the green brown of your eyes softening. “So? What?” A touch of Yiddish creeps into your inflection. “Maybe I should pay you for this?”

My face actually burns. “Just you try that, pally.”

You chuckle under your breath. “All this for free, then. Doesn’t that make me a lucky mug …”

I stare at you, my mind racing. Because it’s true. Even when I hated you, I was honest with you. You twist words and I untwist them. I know your joke set-ups and one-liners, see how you operate and I call your bluff. And apparently that appeals to you.

My eyes narrow. “So it’s all about you, then. What about — ”

You open your mouth to deliver what I just know will be a quip and I can feel my eyes flash fury. Rather wisely, your expression sobers and instead you say “All right, then. What do you want, your most royal highness?”

I’m so irritated with you I don’t think before saying it. “I want you to be worthy of me.”

Goddamnit.

This is when I need to push you away and storm off. But your reaction distracts me. The soft amazed laugh and the light dawning in your eyes. “Fuck … I knew it. I knew you were as arrogant as me!”

“Well, someone had to be,” I say automatically. “What do you mean, you knew it?”

But you’ve burst into laughter and I watch, slightly amazed, this genuine uproarious sound that has you rearing back, so beautiful and utterly real. Touchable. I know your set-ups and one-liners, I don’t need to get inside you for that. But you still have the simple and enormous ability to surprise me. 

Delight me.

It unflowers in my chest, the fear that rises up and breaks open, and oh god it’s like the warmth of the sun yearning up towards you, warmth along all the veins and arteries and flesh of me, warmth to the tips of my breasts. It sounds on my breath, shows in the way I reach my hand up and draw you down to me. Maybe you see it, maybe you don’t. But your eyes are smiling before the lashes lower and your fingertips come to rest on the inside of my wrist, blood beating warm as we kiss.

It’s embarrassing, it’s impossible, there is no defence against this, and all I want to do is hide in you.

I seek the hollow of your throat, to nuzzle into the tiny curls there, still embarrassed by the way your mouth feathers over my cheekbone, touching the corner of my lips. It’s so gentle, the way you do this. And it makes me realise something small and something enormous. What we did, what you did to me with your mouth and your hands, that was you at your most selfish, to pull my pleasure from me. And you at your most unselfish.

I can’t separate the two. And maybe you wouldn’t be able to separate the need and fury of me, to uncover the heart of me.

Maybe there’s no need to. We may never be redeemed, either of us.

“Hey,” I say with your lips against my cheek.

“Mmm?” You lick a little and I try to catch the tip of your tongue with my mouth. A laugh on your breath, you kiss me and afterwards I say “You know what you did before? With the mouth and the hands not touching, the Svengali thing …”

You chuckle. “Svengali, huh?”

“Well, you know. Your body belongs to me sort of thing, it moves when I make it move. Svengali. Phantom Of The Opera.”

You’re not going to understand that second reference but you get enough to kiss the corner of my mouth. “Mm. What about it?”

“Can we do that again? Only, you know, vice versa.”

You pull back, slightly startled, and I get somewhat distracted at how your lips go all curly and pouty before I explain. “Me to you, I mean.” And then with some indignation, “I want my turn.”

This time the kiss is a lot wilder and a lot longer, your hands winding in my hair and your limbs slipping all long and slender against mine, making me quite breathless and hot and happy. That bite on the inside of your thigh, yes definitely that will have to happen. And maybe my tongue between the bracelet and your wrist. My body begins to thrum in anticipation, the images flickering vivid across my mind.

“So,” you say quietly and draw back a fraction. “Is this it?”

What?

Your eyes are a little fierce now, the shape of your mouth hard and somehow even more vulnerable. “Is one night all I get?”

Oh christ. Kill me with kindness, why don’t you?

But this, this I know is a gift, this belligerent tenderness, and I’m not so fucked up that I can push this away, not when it’s you.

I put my hand on your chest, between the two strands of the gold chain, and the lean muscle rises with the startled breath you take. Soft dense curls but it’s the shades of green and brown that seem so strangely clear now after all these months. They reveal you, thinking too much and feeling too much.

I could fight you on principle, fight this. Tell you I don’t need the threat of you to all that I hold precious about me. I could tell you a lot of things. Instead I move my hand to where your heart thuds hot under muscle.

It’s not as if I can actually feel your emotional heart, it’s not that I think I can lay claim to you this way. But I want to see your reaction and yes, there’s that flash of alarm across your face, quickly and ruthlessly quelled. 

It’s enough for me.

I breathe in and place my palm over the gold medallion. Is this it? 

“Not necessarily … no.”

It may last a week, it may last years. I could discover a personal habit of yours that sends me hurtling out the door. You could discover one high-maintenance creative person is all a household could take. I could drive you crazy with my hair getting everywhere. And if you cheat on me, I’ll take a piece of you with me when I go. No metaphor.

But it could also be good and fun, full of intelligence and humour. You and me and the thunder of egotistic intellects crashing and roaring between us. You’re emotional and I’m volatile. There’s nothing trite about either of us and the frequency that vibrates between us may transform moment to moment but it could never be dull. We’ll fight and we’ll fuck and who knows, we might even evolve together as artists and human beings.

We’ll have each other.

And in a few years’ time, we could read Story of O together and you’d make some joke about absinthe corrupting even the sweetest girl. I’d laugh and tell you there have never been any sweet girls, just male fantasies. You’d raise a brow and say something about female fantasies and I’d blush in the way only you can make me.

It’s a future I can’t resist. 

But then … it’s a past that never happened … The fantasy of you is rich and wonderful in my imagination, makes me as much of a deluded artist as you, playing with what might have been instead of what could be. 

There will never be any songs or books about us … but at least there will always be this, a story of us.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at http://aquandrian.livejournal.com/812928.html
> 
> Miss Goddess to you: The Philadelphia Story.  
> gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh: A Clockwork Orange, Anthony Burgess.  
> Could we have this?: Becoming Jane.  
> you’re nasty, all of you: The bank robber.  
> Ho, ho, that’s rich!: Kids.  
> send me halava // coax me: The Talk Of The Town.  
> swell, carnal and keen // mah shoes: There’s No Tomorrow/My Heart Cries For You.


End file.
